


Kinktober 2018

by finnandfluke



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Captain America (Movies), Hannibal (TV), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Venom (Comics), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Biting, Blood, Cannibalism, Come Marking, Coming Untouched, Dark Will Graham, Dom/sub, Eddie Brock's Tragic Past, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, F/M, Gentle Dom, Kinktober 2018, Knifeplay, M/M, Masks, Mental Link, Mirror Sex, Pegging, Rimming, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensory Deprivation, Suicidal Ideation (mentioned), Teasing, feederism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-01 17:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16289135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnandfluke/pseuds/finnandfluke
Summary: Hello, you beautiful kinky bastards!  The leaves are turning, horror movies are on prime-time, and I'm overdosing on pumpkin spice, so it must be the most wonderful time of the year! Kinktober has once again graced us with her presence, and this year's list is SO good!





	1. Masks, Steve/Bucky

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated as I go. Chapters are named "Kink, Pairing" for easy searching. See the notes at the beginning of each chapter for warnings and to find out which tags apply.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mask  
> Pairing: Steve/Bucky  
> Rating: Teen and up  
> Warnings: None  
> Tags: masks, Dom/sub, Safe Sane and Consensual, Gentle Dom

The muzzle still fit over his mouth. He knew it would. This was not a fact that should have surprised him.

It did surprise him.

Five years since he had broken out of Hydra’s control – five years of running, changing, healing – and he still wore the face of the Soldier. 

Gentle hands were in his hair. Wrong. Too gentle, no one touched the Soldier like that. Only people deserved gentleness. The Soldier was a weapon, not a person, and was not to be treated with kindness.

The hands finished clipping the muzzle into place. There would be no goggles. Wrong again, against protocol. 

This handler had no idea what he was doing. He gave the handler an unimpressed stare.

“Would you rather I be meaner than this?”

The Soldier was not to be asked questions. The Soldier couldn’t reply.

The handler crouched down, balance preternatural, eyes level with the Soldier’s. “Unless you drop that bell, I get to do anything I want to you. That was the deal, Soldier.” The gentle hands reached to cradle the Soldier’s face. “This is what I want.” The handler’s thumbs swept over his eyelids. There was no pain. The soldier whined behind the muzzle. 

He had been knelt on the floor. His hands had been tied behind his back. He had expected pain, injury, humiliation, but not… this. This was too much. The Soldier couldn’t endure this.

His flesh hand twitched; the small bell in his palm gave a muted ring. The handler’s eyes went sharp. They assessed the Soldier. Clever eyes, kind eyes, beloved eyes. The Soldier tightened his hand around the bell. 

The Soldier couldn’t form words, but he spat out a sound that could have been a curse. The handler smiled. The smile was wicked, sly, stubborn.

The handler leaned in. The Soldier kept glaring at him. The handler kissed the Soldier’s forehead, then pulled back.

Too gentle, far too gentle, he didn’t deserve this. The Soldier deserved pain. The Soldier required pain.

The handler’s fingers combed gently through his hair, pulling his head closer. No. The Soldier was swaying closer. Undisciplined, against protocol; the Soldier should not want. The Soldier should move only under orders. No orders had been given; the Soldier must not move.

The handler leaned forward again. Kind hands steadied his face as the handler kissed the muzzle. The muzzle was rigid, and the Soldier could not feel soft lips through hard Kevlar. He felt the kiss anyway, lush and warm and damp, an echo of a memory. The handler tilted their heads, his jaw moving. He remembered a hot tongue slipping between his lips. The taste of coffee and copper. 

These were memories the Soldier should not have. 

The handler’s blue eyes opened. Intense blue. Beautiful blue. He was still kissing the Soldier’s muzzle. He was still kissing the Soldier, as if a weapon was worthy of love. The Soldier heard himself whining. He wanted, god he wanted. He wanted everything.

When the handler pulled away and stood up the Soldier whimpered. There were tears on his face, under his mask. The handler’s smile was cruel.

“Told you, didn’t I?” His kind hand cupped the Soldier’s chin, forced the Soldier to meet his eyes. “I promised I’d make you cry.”


	2. Begging, Natasha/Clint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Begging  
> Pairing: Natasha/Clint  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: None  
> Tags: Begging, Teasing, Pegging, Anal Fingering, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub

Natasha turned another page and canted her hips forward. Beneath her Clint gasped. She let one hand trail up his shoulders to the back of his neck, where sweat beaded across Clint’s skin. His breath was laboured but his pulse was strong. Her hand slipped into his hair, gentle and disinterested as she returned to reading.

Neuroscience had never been a passion of hers, but Natasha was rethinking her opinion. She could enjoy this topic given the right incentive. She may even continue this book once she and Clint finished their scene.

God, he looked pretty like this, bound to and bent over the edge of the desk, hands cuffed behind his back. It gave her full access to his ass while denying him movement. The angle was perfect to watch the stretch and pull of his rim around her strap-on. Purple, of course. Her boy’s favourite colour.

The page turned, and Clint was whining even before she moved. Clever boy, it had only taken him – she checked her place – one hundred and twelve pages to spot the pattern. Natasha pulled her hips back, watching his thighs twitch as the dildo slipped out easily. His asshole was pink and plush. Beautiful. She pushed in leisurely, already returning to her book. Clint’s thighs were still twitching when her hips met his. 

He sucked in a ragged breath, and gasped out, “You couldn’t possibly read faster, could you?”

Oh, her beautiful boy. He was so close to getting what he wanted. “Say the word, Clint, and I’ll put down the book entirely.”

A pause, then, “No.”

Her beautiful, stubborn boy. 

“Very well,” she said, and opened the book. Truly, neuroscience was potentially fascinating. She turned the page. 

This time Clint started keening, but he didn’t stop when her hips stilled. His voice was high, and it rang through her bones with force. There were tears in his eyes. The slightest pressure would break him. Natasha lifted herself smoothly to the balls of her feet, laying the weight of her torso across Clint’s back. The keening rose in pitch.

Natasha turned the page and rocked her body forward. Her breasts slid against his back, nipples grazing his trembling hands. Pleasure skittered across her skin. Her hips ground against Clint’s ass and the dildo slid deeper, pressing against his prostate. Clint began to shake in earnest, body nearly convulsing with the force of his sobs.

“Pl – ah! – Please! Nat, please, I can’t – I can’t – ” 

Natasha’s smile felt feral. She pressed every inch of her body to Clint, stilling completely. 

Her lips brushed across his neck as she growled, “Oh, my boy, all you ever have to do is ask.” 

The book was forgotten on the corner of the desk as she stood up and grabbed the bottle of lube, the dildo slipping out.

“No, n-no, please no, Natasha. Please, in me, please.” Clint’s voice was frantic.

“Shhh,” Natasha poured lube onto her hand, recoating the dildo before pressing her slick fingers into Clint’s hole. “Shhh, beautiful, I’m right here.” She kissed his lower back, twisting her fingers inside of him. “Is this where you want me?”

“Yes, yes – oh god – yes Nat,” he moaned. Her fingers stroked over his prostate and he shrieked. “Please, Natasha, fill me up – please – ah!”

She just chuckled. “Like this, Clint?” Natasha pressed four fingers past his rim and started to wonder if fisting was a possibility.

Clint looked over his shoulder caught her eye, and Natasha couldn’t look away. He was nearly weeping, his face lovely with a flush of need and embarrassment. “No,” he whispered, “Please – ah! – please… with your cock, Nat. Fill me with your cock.”

Well then, fisting would have to wait. Next time.

Natasha was quick to remove her fingers and sink the dildo into his hole. She gripped the sides of his waist as she started to thrust, no longer teasing, no longer soft. Clint’s wails were musical – god she loved how loud he was. Her beautiful, lovely boy.

With every push her hips slapped against his ass, and his hips were shoved into the hardwood desk. In the morning there would be a bruise across his hipbones.

“Yes! Tasha, yes,” he moaned, “Harder, please Tasha – oh! Oh god. Please! Tasha, please, I’m so… oh fuck, I’m so close, please!”

Natasha’s fingers tightened, her grip painting more bruises into his skin. “Tell me, sweet boy,” she breathed, “tell me what you want.”

“Ma – oh god Tasha! – make me come, please! Please make me come, please, please – ah! – please…”

She rolled back onto the balls of her feet, lifting her hips, thrusting down mercilessly into her boy’s hole. Natasha pressed one hand to the back of Clint’s neck and tangled her fingers in his hair. 

Clint came hard, back arching and hips writhing. Semen streaked the floor beneath the desk as his hips bucked against the edge, vainly seeking friction for his ignored cock. His moans were filthy, raw with emotion and release, wet from his tears. Glorious. Natasha loved making him come like this; he would be dazed for hours.

She slipped the dildo out of his hole and swiftly undid the straps. Untying Clint’s limbs was the work of seconds, and then he was resting in her arms as she carried him to bed.


	3. Knifeplay, Bruce/Clark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Knifeplay, Edgeplay, Sensory Deprivation (They just go together so well!!!)  
> Pairing: Bruce/Clark  
> Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: I'm not tagging for 'cutting' because that's really not what this is, but proceed with caution if that's a trigger for you.  
> Tags: Dom/sub, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Knifeplay, Edgeplay, Sensory Deprivation, Blood  
> NB: This is a really dangerous way to do knifeplay, but I figure Bruce is an anatomy expert and knows exactly what he’s doing. That said, DO NOT USE THIS AS A GUIDE!

The first pass of the blade startled Clark. He didn’t know why, he had heard the displacement of air, the soft swish of cloth and steel. But he hadn’t expected the slick bloom of pain. It was far from unbearable, but the ease with which Bruce delivered it was… unsettling.

“You’re trembling,” Bruce growled, “I haven’t even cut you. Yet.”

Clark’s eyes snapped open, eyes straining to see through the blindfold. Red light seeped under the fabric. He couldn’t smell any blood, but that told him nothing. Without the red-sun radiation lamps he would have been able to hear the keratin tearing, cells bursting, blood rushing to bead atop the skin. Now he was lucky to catch the sound of Bruce’s movements.

Again, the cold blade of the knife was pressed flat against his thigh. He felt Bruce angle the blade, drag the tip across the flesh of his inner thigh, then up across his hip to his lower stomach. The knife paused at his chest to trace over a nipple and Clark’s breath rushed from his lungs. The world was quiet and dim, the scratching pain the only focal point.

Clark wasn’t scared. He didn’t need to reassure himself of Bruce’s motives or capabilities. He knew his husband. There wasn’t a thing in the world that Bruce wouldn’t give to him if Clark asked, not a secret in the world that Bruce would keep from him if he asked the right questions. Clark mattered to him, and Bruce took precious care of those he loved. So the flush of adrenaline on his skin wasn’t true fear. Still, when the knife finally made its way up his throat to rest above his carotid there was… a shiver, and it echoed through his body in waves of hyper-sensation.

He hadn’t thought he could feel so much without his powers. 

Clark thought about moving away from the knife; there were still a few inches between his head and the wall to which he was shackled. He could move, easily. Except the shiver had reached his bones, and instead of increasing his body’s trembling it had forced it into tense submission. But Clark could move, if only he could convince his body to listen to him.

Bruce leaned close, cheek brushing against Clark’s, and whispered, “Most people don’t know, but ‘fight or flight’ is never the whole picture.” His breath felt scorching on Clark’s neck. “More often than not, a person will freeze. They assess, they wait,” Bruce kissed his cheek, “they allow the situation to unfold.”

The knife was lifted from Clark’s throat and replaced with a calloused hand that pushed him against the wall. The pressure of it was intense, euphoric. This position was well known to both of them, often employed, as familiar and comforting as a warm blanket. 

But Clark still couldn’t make his body move, his mind focused on the unknown position of the knife. He didn’t hear Bruce move before he felt the press of metal on his lower lip. The sharp edge bit against his skin. Clark couldn’t see, but he knew his husband’s gaze was honed on his mouth. When the blade began to move it was almost loving. If not for the taste of blood Clark would have called it gentle.

“Fuck,” Bruce sighed, “Look at you, Clark.” The knife left again as Bruce’s thumb rubbed across his lips, the blood smearing. “So fucking pretty. Just for me.”

Clark didn’t dare move to speak, the blade still an unknown quantity, so he whimpered in the back of his throat. His husband growled at the sound. The hand around his throat tightened and Bruce was kissing him, biting and sucking at his bloodied lip before forcing his tongue into Clark’s mouth. His kisses had always been bruising but this – bright coppery pain and the aching need for air – was so new. Clark allowed his mouth to loll open, offering no resistance to Bruce’s whims. His world was blood and pain and stillness and Bruce could take what he wanted.

Clark still felt the hand at his throat, unyielding and sure.


	4. Mirror Sex, Bruce/Clark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mirror Sex  
> Pairing: Bruce/Clark  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: None  
> Tags: Mirror sex, Established Relationship, Rimming, Come Marking, Anal Sex

“I won’t be able to sleep like this.”

Bruce glanced at Clark. He was staring up at the deplorably tacky mirror mounted above their bed. Which was, of course, requisite in the ‘anniversary suite’ of a four-star hotel in the middle of Vegas that was hand picked by Diana, whose sense of humour apparently included pranks on unsuspecting friends desperate for an anniversary spent away from their families. Bruce had devoted the past five hours to ignoring every gauche, clumsy nod to romance that the hotel room had tried to make, and part of him resented being pulled back to reality. 

Most of him was focused on the comically distressed look on Clark’s face.

“Why not,” Bruce asked, “Have you developed a sudden fear of mirrors?”

Clark fixed him with a look of incredulity. “You’re kidding,” he said, “right? Bruce, my reflection is staring back at me from the damn ceiling. This isn’t normal.”

“If you stop looking at him he’ll stop looking at you,” Bruce said. A huff of irritation was all his response before Clark let the subject drop. He finished stripping off his pants and climbed into the bed with Clark, coaxing his husband closer until his head rested on Bruce’s shoulder. “Though,” he said, glancing upwards “it’s not a bad view.” 

Clark hummed an agreement as he stroked a hand down Bruce’s chest. “Not bad at all,” he said. He wasn’t looking at the ceiling. 

Bruce preened silently, gaze fixed on their reflection and the way Clark’s hand looked trailing over his pectorals. Clark Kent, the most deliberate man Bruce had ever met. The position of each finger was calculated, every movement planned before he made contact, pressure augmented based on constant subconscious analysis of cellular homeostasis. For Clark, touching people was an exhausting exercise of control and precision. There were few things that Bruce could give his husband, but a relaxing evening on their anniversary was certainly one.

He gently pushed Clark onto his back, stripping off the man’s underwear before shimmying down the bed, laying a cheek against the inside of Clark’s thigh. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said, “just watch.” Bruce wasn’t prepared for the moan that rumbled through the body beneath him. He glanced up to see Clark staring at the ceiling, at the mirror. The sheets had slipped down to the foot of the bed, leaving them both on display. Clark’s foot grazed his side, sliding down to catch at the waistband of Bruce’s briefs.

“Off,” Clark said, “You want me to watch? Then I want to see all of you.”

Bruce smiled and bit at invulnerable skin, using a free hand to shed his last piece of clothing. “Better, love?”

“Much.” Clark’s hands were linked behind the back of his head, legs spread elegantly to give Bruce room to maneuver. He was peacocking, Bruce realized, posing them in a tableau that only he would see. Well then. Bruce could work with that.

He kissed his way down to Clark’s hip, angling his husband’s legs to where he needed them, but no further. Bruce preferred having Clark’s legs over his shoulders for this, but that was obviously not what Clark wanted to see. So Bruce made do as he slipped his tongue into Clark’s asshole. 

At one time Bruce had wished that this would make Clark writhe, but that dream was quickly discarded the first time he’d seen his lover go pliant like this. The moment Clark felt a tongue on his hole he went boneless, regardless of the situation, and despite all other stimuli. It was utterly gorgeous. And this time Clark got to see his own face as it happened.

Bruce continued to tease the soft skin between Clark’s cheeks, tongue burrowing as deeply as the position allowed. Clark’s whimpers were getting louder the longer Bruce played with his hole, stuttering when he pressed two fingers past his rim.

“Fuck you’re beautiful,” Bruce breathed out. Clark’s whimpers turned to sobs when Bruce found his prostate. “So beautiful, sweetheart. Gonna make you come like this.” He glanced up at Clark, who was still fixated on their reflections, and pressed another finger in to play with the bundle of nerves. Clark was nearly incoherent with pleasure, but his gaze never wavered. “You’re close, babe, I know you are.” Bruce watched his husband’s cock twitch, precome beading at the tip and dripping onto his stomach. “Don’t close your eyes,” he said, and pressed his tongue in beside his fingers. 

Clark came hard, sobbing as his come streaked across his chest, painted his stomach pearlescent. Bruce kept moving his fingers, tongue dipping in and out, stroking his walls and licking at the rim. Every pass of his tongue made Clark’s cock jerk, another splatter of come marking his stomach. It took minutes to wring him dry, and all the while Bruce reveled in the gifts of Kryptonian biology. 

When Clark was finally done Bruce pulled back, taking in the picture his husband made. Clark’s stomach and chest were covered in his come, his softening cock twitching against the mess. His arms had stayed by his head, but he’d fisted his hands in the pillows. Clark’s eyes were glazed and still focused on the mirror. 

Bruce ran a hand through the little puddles of come between Clark’s abs, watching his stomach tremble beneath his fingers. “Look at you,” he rasped, “filthy and stunning. Clark, you’re so beautiful, you have no idea.” Bruce knelt between his legs, using Clark’s come to slick his own cock. “No idea what the sight of you does to me, sweetheart. How hard you get me.” He pressed his cock against Clark’s rim, giving him a moment to object before Bruce shoved himself inside. Clark’s moans sounded close to rapturous every time Bruce moved inside of him. God, he was still so tight, hole trembling from his orgasm, body hot around Bruce’s cock. A few thrusts and Bruce was already too close.

Bruce pulled out quickly and fisted his cock, pumping once, twice, before marking Clark with his own come. His husband kept watching their reflection, even as he moaned at the sight of Bruce’s orgasm.

Bruce collapsed on his side next to Clark, gasping for breath and composure. His hand was back on Clark’s stomach, tracing lazy patterns through their mess. Finally, Clark’s stare broke from the mirror as he let his head loll to the side. His gaze locked on to Bruce’s face. His jaw worked, mouth opening as if he wanted to speak but had lost all words. 

“God I love you,” Bruce said. Clark seemed to melt further into the sheets. His eyes were soft as they watched Bruce grab the towels on the nightstand. Bruce gently wiped them clean, movements practical but slow, taking time they usually couldn’t afford. When he was done he pulled the sheets over them and wrapped his arms around his husband.

Clark immediately sought out his warmth, nestling his face into Bruce’s shoulder as he tangled their legs together. “I love you, Bruce,” he whispered. His voice was wrecked and it pulled at Bruce’s heart.

“Go to sleep,” he said, kissing the top of Clark’s head and reaching past him to turn off the light.


	5. Feederism, Eddie/Symbiote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Feederism  
> Pairing: Eddie/Symbiote  
> Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: Semi-graphic cannibalism  
> Tags: Feederism, Mental link, Cannibalism, Suicidal Ideation (mentioned), Eddie Brock's Tragic Past, Angst  
> Look, I just saw this movie where alien goo falls for a good bottom boy and they save the world by eating people, join me in this hellship.

There were upsides to having a symbiont attached to your nervous system. 

 

No, really.

 

Loneliness was no longer something that happened to Eddie Brock.  A small thing, to most, maybe even annoying and intrusive to the standard human.  Not Eddie.

 

What, you want the origin sob-story?  Fine, we can do that.  Ever heard of daddy issues?  Abandonment issues?  Well Eddie had them in spades with a couple more aces shoved up the sleeve.  Dead mom too, not that he ever met her.  Died in childbirth, all Eddie’s fault, should have had an abortion but the church wouldn’t let her, blah blah fuckity blah.  Go ahead, cry a river, cuz at this point you’d be the only one who’d care besides Eddie.

 

So parent issues, check.  That’s the big one right there.

 

And the rest?  He was raised a proper catholic boy, fed original sin instead of mother’s milk, then kicked from the fold when he was caught snogging Kenny G. in the locker room.  You’d think a San Fran high school would have been almost fine with a bi boy, but sometimes kids are real shits, you know? So no friends ‘til uni, and even those were more drinking buddies than decent pals. 

 

Self-loathing, check.  Identity issues, check.  Isolation, triple check.

 

Put it all in a pot, stir for thirty-seven years, season with recent job loss and a broken engagement and voila!  You’ve made a broke, lonely, mistrustful son-of-a-bastard.

 

Then along comes an alien who sees it all and says: yes, perfect, I want THAT human.

 

And Eddie Brock is never lonely again.  At least, that’s the simple take.  But have you ever had a voice in your head with a running monologue about how fucked up you are?  Nah, that’s not Venom, that’s depression.  Years and years of ignoring the voice in his head that hates him, and Eddie knows he can put up with another that’s vaguely annoying and homicidal.  Especially if he gets some company out of the deal.

 

Then Vee starts arguing with that hateful voice, calling Eddie good, calling him beautiful.  He says no one gets to talk bad about his host.  About his Eddie.  And Eddie’s head becomes a place that’s comfortable, and he wonders if this is what most people feel like all the time.

 

When Vee says he loves him, Eddie says it back, easy as breathing.  No, easier, like the firing of synapse, automatic and unstoppable.

 

So there are good points to being host to an alien symbiote: Eddie is never alone, never scared of his mind, never unloved.  There is no price that Eddie wouldn’t pay to keep Venom close.  There is nothing he wouldn’t do to make his partner happy.

 

Which sometimes means that Eddie is stupidly domestic, like right now, out past 3 AM to find a snack because Venom is hungry.  Venom is always hungry, and Eddie is finding it more and more distressing.  Not physically, since Vee had promised to never again feed from him, to never again hurt his love.  Not even to save himself.

 

That was the problem, really.  Because Vee was hungry and even humans couldn’t survive on nothing but processed potatoes and the odd mugger.

 

**Where we going, Eddie?  Store back there.**

“We’re not going to the store, I’ve got a better idea.”

 

**Better than chocolate?**

The wave of sarcasm rolls down Eddie’s neurons and makes him laugh.

 

“Maybe.  Just be patient for once in your life, dearest.  I’ve got us a lead.”

 

It doesn’t take long to get to the harbourfront warehouse, less to park the bike and find the old fire escape ladder.

 

**Eddie.**

 

“Patience, love.”

 

Eddie takes a deep breath and begins the climb.  It’s a long one, and fuck it all, he hates every step, but the voice in his head isn’t telling him to jump to his death and that’s because of Venom.  Every good thing in his life is because of Venom, and the least he can do is make sure his love is well fed.

 

**For me, Eddie?**

 

He laughs as silently as he can, clinging to the ladder.  “You think I’d be up here for shits and giggles?”

 

Venom doesn’t respond, but there’s a warm flush of happiness crawling up Eddie’s throat.  He pushes on, and thanks his lucky star when the roof door is unlocked.  Silently he slips into the warehouse, descending until he reaches an old catwalk with a view of the main floor.  There are two groups of men in sight, carrying weapons and posturing.

 

**Bad guys!**

 

 _The worst_ , Eddie thinks.  _Remember that tip about the weapons deal?  Rival gangs brought together in the name of capitalism, pooling their money to afford something REALLY special.  Those are the main players of each faction._   A smaller group of men enters from a loading door, hauling boxes and even bigger guns.  _And those are the dealers.  A good thirty people, all of them scum._

 

Venom starts to vibrate under Eddie’s skin.  Tendrils wrap between his fingers to hold one of his hands.

 

**No cops.  Why?  You always call cops on big stuff.**

Eddie tries not to squirm as he thinks, with as much sincerity as he can force into a thought, _You’re so hungry, love.  You have been for days, and it’s hurting you.  I never want you to hurt.  Because you’re mine, my love, and I want to take care of you.  Will they be enough?_

 

The swell of adoration knocks Eddie to his knees, leaves him gasping just this side of too loud.  Venom has already enveloped him by the time the first goon starts shooting.

 

The first eight go quickly, ripped apart and devoured in seconds.  Venom rejoices with every kill.  Each body lessens the echoed ache in Eddie’s stomach.  His love is so happy, joyfully biting through one goon’s torso.

 

This should probably disturb Eddie.  It doesn’t.  It should definitely not be turning him on.  And yet…

 

Venom pauses, focus turning inward.  Eddie tries to push back against it.  He doesn’t keep anything from Vee, doesn’t ever want to, but fuck if they’re dealing with this now.

 

_Your meals are getting away._

 

Venom’s growl is so deep it’s nearly a purr.

 

**“Yes, love.”**

 

No one escapes.  The hunger has vanished long before it’s over, leaving Venom to savour the last few men.  Eddie learns that his love plays favourites if given the chance; Vee prefers the taste of liver, the softness of brain after the crunch of skull, the sweetness of the endocrine glands.  Lungs are left to cool – Vee doesn’t like the spongy texture or the soapy taste – while the marrow of the iliac crest is saved for a dessert.

 

When the feast is done they leave the warehouse behind.  Venom doesn’t retreat into Eddie once they make it to the bike, instead choosing to remain as a thin film above his skin but below his clothes.  With his helmet on no one would ever know the difference.  Except Eddie, who feels like he’s being hugged by a warm, happy, sated blanket on their ride home. 

 

And Stupid Eddie really thinks that’s gonna be the end of their night.  Idiot. 

 

He’s barely locked the door before Venom’s tendrils have thrown him down on the couch.

 

**You liked it, Eddie.**

 

There’s no damn point in denying, and he honestly doesn’t want to, it’s just that Eddie’s not sure he really has the words for it either.  But for his other half, anything.

 

“Yes… I don’t know why.”

 

 **Don’t care.** Venom’s face appears over his, tongue reaching out to stroke Eddie’s lips – their version of a kiss.  **Still want?**

 

“Fuck yes, my love.  Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got long, so I'll be posting part 2 under a different prompt.


	6. Biting, Will/Hannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Biting  
> Pairing: Hannibal/Will  
> Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: Read tags  
> Tags: Biting, Cannibalism (referenced), Dark Will Graham, Dom/sub, Blood

There was something delectable about having a man completely at your mercy.  Intoxicating.  Like the wine on the table, like the delicacies spread across the floor. 

 

Hannibal hadn’t seen him coming.  Will had always been his blind spot, a psychiatrist’s curiosity the chink in his armour.  Hannibal didn’t see Will, but Will had seen all of Hannibal.

 

William Graham didn’t get to have blind spots.  He was mostly at peace with this fact.

 

Hannibal was gazing at the food on the floor, the last piece of Freddie Lounds gone to waste.  And it was a waste, Will could see that through Hannibal’s eyes.  But there was a better prize for Will.

 

Hannibal had gotten away from him once.  Will’s one slip, to be seen as weak enough to be prey.  That would not happen again, now that Hannibal knew Will the way Will knew Hannibal.  Now they were equals, no more facades, no more veneer, no more masks.  Will looked at Hannibal and saw the stag, and Hannibal…

 

“What do I look like to you?”  Will’s voice was coffin-quiet.  “What do you see?”

 

Finally, _finally_ , Hannibal looked up from the floor.  Looked at Will.  _Saw_ Will.  “William,” he breathed, wonder writ large across his face, “you are beautiful.”

 

That was enough, for now.  Someday Will might explain, might demand a full review of his image in Hannibal’s eyes.  Later.  Hannibal was spread out beneath him, looking good enough to eat.

 

“These clothes,” Will said, hand trailing over silk and cotton, “are expensive.”  Not a question; Will knew his quarry.  “Typically, I’d mourn the waste,” He drew a knife from his pocket, let the blade spring open.  “But today seems like a time for indulgence.  May I?”  Will gestured to the impeccable suit, and Hannibal moaned.

 

“Had you not asked, this night may have gone very differently.”  It was part banter, but the hint of malice beneath was not a surprise.

 

Will bared his teeth, in invitation, in warning.  “I know.”

 

A long moment, and then “You may, dear Will.”

 

The knife slid beneath jacket and waistcoat, slicing fabric that Will couldn’t hope to afford.  They were discarded with minimal effort, but the shirt beneath he cut to ribbons – one of those horrendous striped things that was only made passable by sheer quality. 

 

The belt, Will simply unbuckled.  The shoes were untied and removed.  After all, there was waste, and then there was _waste_.  In compensation, the underwear and slacks were given no quarter, left in worse shape than the offensive shirt before they – and all other scraps of fabric – were summarily discarded to the floor.

 

Gods, but Hannibal was a dream made flesh.  Skin laid softly atop capable muscle, holding the strength of a lean man.  Swirls of hair on his chest, stomach, legs, a thicker thatch at the groin.  The grey of his eyes and lovely, ruddy purple of his cock.  Everything in proportion, everything laid out like a feast, all for Will.

 

“You framed me for your murders, Hannibal,” and here Will moved forward, between the spread thighs of his prey – and soon, his partner, but not quite yet.  “I know you considered it rude.  I know it was a matter of survival, the base taking precedence over civility.”  Hannibal inclined his head, regal in all things, but not denying.  “It seems a small matter in the face of our _becoming_ , but…”  Will left the bait to dangle, praying to no god that he would get a bite.

 

“Is this a matter of apology,” said Hannibal, “or restitution?”

 

Will cupped his cheek to draw their gazes level.  “What do you see, Hannibal?”

 

The air stilled between them, the silence of a cathedral, of worship and devotion.  Hannibal’s tongue traced his lower lip, and he answered, “You look like a man seeking his pound of flesh.”  The thrill of it licked up Will’s spine, caught in his throat.

 

“That, my love, is exactly what I am.”

 

Hannibal’s teeth showed in his venomous smile, dripping with promise and full, breathtaking comprehension.  “Nowhere I cannot cover, please,” and he brushed a kiss across Will’s mouth.  “Beyond that, I am yours.”  And he laid back, offering surrender.

 

Will nearly wept with the joy of it.  He considered his catch for the moment, planning his meal, before trailing fingers across an ankle.  Hannibal’s body was pliant as he was moved, one leg brought up to rest on Will’s shoulder.  With his mouth he traced the swells and valleys of calf and knee, resting against the warm flesh of inner thigh. 

 

He took a moment to scent, to inhale the clean salt warmth of skin.  Again he bared his teeth, flesh yielding as he bit.  Softly, at first, teasing sensation and control from Hannibal’s body, then sinking in harder until his prey moaned.  Interesting.  Will had expected the abuse to be borne, but not enjoyed.

 

No matter, though.  Will did not care to make this act a punishment – it was merely payment of a debt long owed.  Will bit harder, sucked a bruise into the center. 

 

He moved on quickly, biting up the length of thigh to groin, passing over the weeping cock with a lingering glance.  Will did not bite at the abdominals, much as he wished to taste their shuddering breaths, but moved on to pectorals, clavicles, neck.  Hannibal bared his throat to Will. 

 

Utter submission is preciously rare, in all times and circumstance.  Often it is a thing only seen once, then craved forever after.  Will had glimpsed trust like this through the eyes of the world; he had never thought to have it within his grasp.  A gift like this was never to be spurned.

 

He cupped the back of Hannibal’s head, fingers tangling in ash-brown hair, reassuring as his teeth closed gently around Hannibal’s throat, catching the pulse of jugular and carotid, letting their drumming play over his tongue.  He would not bite down.  This man, spread so beautifully beneath him, was too precious to waste on a moment’s thrill.  So Will let go, soothing the adrenaline thrum of his prey with a pass of his tongue. 

 

He placed his lips against Hannibal’s ear and whispered, “You are a delight, my love.”  Will kissed down to the clavicle, sucked bruises along the delicate arch. 

 

A hand brushed against Will’s cheek and he lifted his head.  Hannibal’s eyes were sharp and full of promise.  “Dear, beloved William,” he said, reverent and breathless, and brought them into a kiss.  His mouth opened readily to Will’s tongue, his lips gave easily when Will bit down.  Every moment was savoured, imprinted on memory, tucked away in a hollow tree by the edge of Will’s river. 

 

The end of the kiss was the beginning of more fevered exploration.  Hannibal’s fingers were dipping under his collar, running through Will’s curls.

 

“Soon,” Will said, “Soon, my love, when the debt is paid.  Then we’ll have our fill.”

 

Hannibal smiled and his hands fell back to the table.  “When that time comes, beloved,” he said, “might I recommend the master bedroom?” 

 

Will’s fingers stroked a nipple as he laughed, enjoying the delightful stuttering of Hannibal’s breath.  It was an enticing offer, but bedrooms required negotiation, and that was best done on equal footing.  And so Will pulled back, surveying the blooms of colour on Hannibal’s thigh, chest, shoulder, lips.  To see bruises flower beneath his skin set fire to Will’s blood.  But there was nothing permanent there, nothing as impactful as incarceration.  Will’s fingers rested above Hannibal’s heart and his mouth watered.

 

Hannibal reached for him again, and Will thought it must be for another kiss.  All breath left him as his mouth was drawn to Hannibal’s chest.  Will gathered the flesh in his mouth and bit.  Hannibal urged his head closer and Will sank his teeth deeper, canine and incisor puncturing skin.

 

The first tang of red was enthralling.  Hannibal was gasping and blood ran past Will’s lips.  The bite was not released until Will was certain that every tooth had carved its mark.

 

At last he lifted his head to gently wipe at the spreading blood, baring the wound to Will’s inspection.  It was perfect, painted above Hannibal’s heart, etched and bleeding and exquisite.  A mark of ownership, a receipt of injuries.  Will kissed the unmarred skin at its center, feather soft, and begged, “let it scar?”

 

Hannibal brought their faces level once more, licked his own blood from Will’s lips.  His feral eyes held kindness; the look of a predator courting its mate.  “As you wish,” he murmured, “my beloved Will.”


End file.
